At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold.
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